


earthy and abhorred desires

by raven_aorla



Series: in all his quality [4]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, The Tempest - Shakespeare
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Loyalty, M/M, Magic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has taken over a year for Silva, one of the mightiest sorcerers a still-largely-unaware-of-magic world has ever seen, to recover from what Bond thought was a fatal wound. And now he knows MI6's new Quartermaster is in fact the immortal spirit Ariel, who once served "Mummy" but now serves Agent 007. Time to turn this to his advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters. 
> 
> Will be lots of shorter chapters rather than one big fic because of finals making me just squeeze in a little writing here and there.

"He should have done a better job killing me," Silva says to the spirit that has been serving as Quartermaster when it comes after 007 shortly after MI6 lost track of him. "Or you should have been more attentive on his most recent mission."

He chose somewhere more congenial than some would have expected for this meeting: a lush hotel suite near the top floor of skyscraper in Hong Kong. Plenty of chances for collateral damage if the spirit should try something. That wouldn't bother Silva, who after two brushes with death is even less interested in subtlety than he ever was, but if his detective work was at all correct and this being is the one he suspects, the possibility of collateral damage would bother it. The sentimentality is oddly charming as well as convenient.

It arrived in a whirl of sparks and lightning and a few steps away from the dining table incongruously resolved into a bespectacled and becardiganed hipster of a young man. But at Silva's opening words the being sheds all pretense of humanity, becoming androgynously naked and translucent, youthful but resonating with the centuries, vibrating with fierce protectiveness. "Where is he? Tell me. Tell me or I will..."

Then the poor little thing collapses to the carpeted floor, flickering, whimpering with frustration and anxiety (he has not yet learned how to cause it direct pain but there must be something), at Silva's muttered curse. He kneels over it with a proprietary gaze. "Oh, my sweet sprite, that's not how we're playing this game. Mummy thought you'd be safe- and humanity safe from you - if she tied the two of her darlings together, and then made me think her dead."

At this the spirit looks up. "Mistress is alive?"

"You will call no one such titles but me from now on. I have James Bond and you know it in whatever frequencies pass for your bones. If I simply kill him the rights to you revert to Her, as they had been, and she is for the moment out of my reach. I will have time for that later. Meanwhile you will do as I say or else Bond will suffer for it. Are we clear? You feel my power. You know I don't need to be anywhere near him to hurt him. You know my imagination. So crawl to me and tell me your name."

Various expressions cross its face before it resolves into a blank mask. It crawls as told, but with a flare of defiance says, "My name is Q."

Silva tsks. "I'm only going to warn you once. If you're not a good boy for me your tasks will include ripping an innocent child's lungs out. If you are good I won't make you hurt anyone needlessly - it's likely some people will have to die, and you will help me with that, but I can be generous enough to limit the harm to bystanders. Now what is your name?"

It bows its head, shrinking in on itself. "Ariel, Master."

"Closer. Be solid unless a task demands you not be or else if I command it. Yes." Silva delights in the small shudder Ariel gives when it is required to let Silva run his fingers through its hair, trace a line down its cheek. "How illustrious you are, if you are that Ariel so famous. Are you?"

It shuts its eyes but stills itself. "Yes, Master."

Silva lays a hand on the back of Ariel's neck, as if measuring it for a collar. Perhaps he will at some point. He's old-fashioned. "You can call me 'sir' if you feel like some variety; I am kindly disposed when I get obedience. Brave new world, hell is empty, so on and so forth. Well. What non-magical physical tasks can you or can you not do?" 

"I am not sure what you mean...sir."

"Do you let Bond fuck you, famous Ariel?" He casts a truth spell to save any tedious further parsing and hedging. 

Sensing the spell take hold, Ariel looks up through long lashes, apprehensive. "We've tried to figure out a way to do that, Master, but I haven't managed to be consistent enough yet. I pleasure him one-sided and enjoy his sensations through our link instead of trying to feel purely my own."

It's a trivial use of such a vast resource, but Silva is nothing if not appreciative of the lesser things in life as well as the greater. Besides it will both put Ariel in its place, helping with the process of taming the lovely thing - and also give Silva something he's been too busy recovering from near-slaughter to take the time to obtain. "Get up and follow me." He wants to see Ariel's reaction when its brief period of standing ends with being ordered to sink to its knees. 

The spirit doesn't seem to be able to produce tears, but once it is given the order and sets about following, the most wonderful tiny, plaintive noises escape from its throat even as it reluctantly yet diligently sucks. 'Sweet sprite' indeed. Silva always liked sweets as a child, eating them whole if he could. This time he can. And will.


	2. Chapter 2

Ariel is Q again when James holds him. That's all James ever calls him, no pet names, nothing but that one letter, one syllable in so many different tones that he doesn't think he could ever tire of it. Mistress was good to Ariel and dear to Ariel, but there was never any romance. Q is a solid person, more human every day, who can be touched, cherished. Not like Ariel who can only be cared for abstractly. Who was so often taken for granted even by those he remembers most fondly. 

"I'm so sorry I let you get captured," he whispers, pressing his face into James' shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

James kisses his temple. "It's going to be all right now."

"I'll believe it if you promise."

"Everything will be fine, sweet sprite."

Cold horror immediately courses through his mind. James has never addressed Q like that. Nor is he the sort to make comforting generalities he knows too often don't hold up to reality.

And with chilling awareness he knows he's been had. Again.

Silva can always tell when the illusion has worn off. Q is difficult to bewitch at the best of times, his nonhuman mind slipping easily from grasp, so that Silva's best glamours can only work until Q becomes conscious of them. This time it is even easier for Silva to notice the change, since Q makes a wretched gasp the moment the mist clears. Q wants to get as far away from the strong arms encircled around him as possible, but he doesn't move beyond his involuntary fluttering. He allows himself to continue to be cradled, legs folded, head pillowed against a chest clad in a thin cotton undershirt, as if he were a young mortal and not a centuries-old fae. 

The collar Silva has made him wear since the fourth day of this enslavement, a little over a fortnight ago, is thick fitted leather with a steel "D" ring along the back. Under the constant spell binding him to tell the truth, one of the few that Q never manages to shake off even if he tries, Q confessed that wearing real clothes rather than just looking like he is clothed causes strain and distraction. Now unless he is told to phase through a wall or something else where he needs to be entirely permeable, he must keep the collar on, and if he does briefly free himself from it he must immediately slip back into it or suffer consequences. This is supposed to be a constant reminder of his new "owner".

Silva tugs on said collar, though this time not with any intent of clipping on a leash - when he does it is more for psychological value than practical purposes, this is as obvious to both of them as it is effective. The tug is more of an absentminded gesture. It's one of those nights where Q is supposed to lie awake in bed with him, rather than crouch at the foot of the bed as he does on other nights when not fulfilling the more time-consuming orders.

"You become so content and pliant when you think you're with him," Silva muses rhetorically. "It's adorable. I almost regret that you wake up from it. Not enough to keep you there, that would defeat the purpose, but it's affecting all the same. Whatever you may think of me I have feelings too."

Q really wants to say something, anything, so he asks what he hopes is a safe question. "Is there anything I can do for you, Master?"

The answering grin is easily visible in the semidarkness. This is the latest in a series of hideouts and headquarters Silva has toted Q along to, not showing him to other people or letting him interact with them beyond strict requirement. He doesn't even know what Silva's grand plan is. In fact he doesn't know more than the next step that involves his talents. Sometimes Silva opens a car boot, or closet - once in a hurry he settled for a desk drawer - tells him to shrink, get in and stay there quietly until Silva fetches him again. Then Silva goes off for hours and hours, no explanation upon return. 

"It's not always about flying around and being active and busy busy," Silva says. "It's also about your training. I play the long game. The faster you progress the less distressed you will be with the situation."

Q does not say that he prefers being distressed to giving Silva one iota of the respect and fondness he does to James. 

Silva chatters on for a while longer, eventually pulling (oppressive, stifling) blankets over both of them. He says they are going to start killing people together soon; it's time to reach that stage in apprenticeship. So far Q has only been required to steal information and destroy property, which by itself hasn't rankled too badly, but he knows that was just the introductory stage. Still he cringes. 

Noticing this as well, Silva rubs his back as if to soothe. "There, now. Don't brood too much on it, there's no point. Better training than discipline."

If this is training, all this, it is not pleasant imagining what "discipline" consists of.

It is a little over a month before all such speculation becomes a terrible reality.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond wakes.

Bond wakes after more dreams than he ever remembers having had.

Bond wakes to a scenario that in some ways is all-too familiar: cuffed to a chair, some basement or bunker or other dark enclosed space. He is not usually gagged during such proceedings but it is not unheard of.

It someone else's choking noise, not the kind from a lack of air but from a lack of belief that things could be so terrible, that alerts him to what is different.

When he focuses, he see that Silva (he's supposed to be dead, but Bond is no stranger to that sort of thing, either) is wearing a light cream suit similar to when he first met. But he has Q in his "natural" form, the one Bond doesn't like as much, naked and alien if still beautiful. He has Q kneeling on the floor, a thick collar around his neck, a leash connected to the collar wrapped in one of Silva's meaty hands. 

"You've been in a magically-induced coma for roughly eight weeks," Silva says as though they have been conversing for some time already. "You would still be there - even with the gag and cuffs I wouldn't risk you figuring out some way to give your pet orders to sabotage me even with the danger to yourself that would entail - but sweet, devoted Ariel here has been a bad thing indeed."

Silva conjures an armchair and settles into it with a sigh. "Remember what I told you, sprite. Otherwise it will be worse. Eyes on him."

In the faintest of voices, Q replies, "Yes, Master."

It would be more logical for Bond to be trying to figure out the context, the details of this whole setup other than it being Very Bad, but he cannot think of anything but how Q hates wearing real clothes. The collar must be torment. Even worse must be the chains that keep Q's hands behind his back. He knows Q well enough that Q's natural ability to escape from such things makes the situation worse in implication, not better. It means other, invisible chains of some kind are in place, and these are just reminders.

Then he gets his very first taste of a magic-induced injury.

"Begin," Silva says. For a dazed moment Bond wonders what he's supposed to do in such agony if he can't even talk.

But that was directed at Q, who says, toneless, "You have broken three of James Bond's bones. This shall teach me to be obedient."

Silva pats Q's head. Q shows no reaction. Even worse than Bond ever imagined, then. "Good. Learn your lesson well and we will avoid excessive nastiness."

Bond feels the bone fibers knit together, many many times accelerated in a matter of seconds rather than weeks or months, which doesn't precisely hurt but is uncomfortable and unnerving. The moment this feeling stops, other bones break just as quickly. His efforts to make no sound in reaction are unsuccessful.

"You have broken two of James Bond's bones. This shall teach me to be obedient."

There is only one thing he can do, Bond decides on the fourth round of this, Q's litany increasingly wavering in volume but never deviating from the script. If their connection is so strong that he knows how many of Bond's very bones have snapped from moment to moment, he must in some way feel his pain. If he can in some way feel his pain, maybe he can feel other things too.

So, even if it might be easier for Bond to keep his eyes shut through this, he locks gazes with Q to amplify any rudimentary psychic receptivity or similar phenomena that Q may possess when it comes to the two of them.

In other words, he signals through the look they share that Q is forgiven. That he is brave. That Bond believes in him. That even if they don't get out of this every bit of defiance is better than lying down to die - that's Bond's style, and he is proud that a being so naturally submissive has gone so far as to anger Silva on Bond's behalf. 

"You have broken five of James Bond's bones. This shall teach me to be obedient."

The words are the slightest, slightest bit more steady, and Q never looks away, but for a different reason now.


	4. Chapter 4

Q and 007 disappear on the same day, within six hours of one another.

Forty-eight hours later, the former M returns. She is thinner, wearier, but very much alive. Eve learns this when Mallory summons her to his office and she starts to see her former boss standing in the corner, leaning on a staff. To her credit Eve recovers quickly.

Mallory sounds more tired than Eve has ever heard him. "It seems both parties we thought dead from the encounter at Skyfall in fact survived. She has reason to believe Silva has Bond hostage in order to manipulate Q into cooperation."

"Good to see you, Moneypenny," says the resurrected.

"You...you too, ma'am." 

"We haven't time for dilly-dally. I've been tracking both Silva and the men who taught him his sorcery all this time, and whatever Silva is planning now, it's far beyond any petty vengeance on me or the British Government. Mallory, the best thing you can do now is contact the Supernatural Service and confer with them about how to prepare for any fallout, limit the damage. If this requires breaking the centuries-old tradition of keeping the branches separate, so be it, as long as it doesn't get out to the general public. Meanwhile Moneypenny will come with me."

"Wait, why?" Eve realizes how unprofessional that sounded and adds, "...ma'am."

Something in the former M looks softer and sadder than Eve ever saw from her before. "The call logs show that you made a personal call to a private number minutes after you learned the two of them had been compromised. Why?"

"Er. It's a bit silly. But you see, Q has a trio of pet cats he leaves with a sitter when he's working or otherwise occupied for more than a few hours. I called her to say he had been in an accident and would survive but would be unable to care for them for a while...I promised to mail her a cheque every week to cover their care. Sorry if I shouldn't have, ma'am."

Instead of any criticism or bafflement, though, the former M gives her a small, brief smile. "I was already considering you because you shot Bond on my order, even though you were a new agent, young, fond of him. You not only followed my order but showed regret only at missing the target, never at having followed the order in the first place. What confirms it is that you clearly see Q as a friend who has been abducted. Not as a weapon that has fallen into the wrong hands."

Eve feels a pang that anyone could think of wry, quick, brilliant, maddening Q as anything else. She shifts in her seat for something to do other than think too hard.

At this Mallory makes a noise of about to say something, but the former M holds up a hand. "Only if both I and Bond die first, Gareth. Please. Besides, we don't even know if it would work."

The two M's exchange a look. Mallory nods once. "I assume you have already spoken to the Supernatural Service."

"Yes. They're expecting you. If you don't mind, Moneypenny and I need to be on our way. We'll go to your flat first so you can pack your things, Agent." The former M steps closer to Eve and puts a hand on her shoulder. "This is only good for short distances, sadly, but anything that makes us less noticeable helps."

In the space of a blink they are at Eve's flat. Eve is so discombobulated she has only a short flash of embarrassment at how untidy it is. The other woman does not seem to even notice. She must care for Q - for Ariel - very much. "Give me twenty minutes and I will be ready," Eve assures her. "Can I get you a drink while you wait?"

"No, thank you. Go on. Be prepared for a variety of climates and at least several weeks of extensive travel."

While the former M turns out to be accurate on both points, Eve does come to wish the warning had been a little more detailed.


	5. Chapter 5

Under other circumstances seeing someone from Q’s life would given Ariel solace. But under these circumstances he wishes more than ever he knew how to die.

He finds Eve just where Silva tells him she will be - a small cabin by the seashore on the coast of Wales. Isolated. Lonely. She’s eating toast spread with marmalade and reading a book, for all the world as if she’s on a restful getaway rather than having caused Silva’s plans all sorts of annoyance and inconvenience over the past nine days.

She looks up at him and he doesn’t know how to interpret her expression - there is evidence for sadness, anger, even some bizarre joy in that steady gaze and twist of the mouth - but when she says, ‘That collar must be upsetting,’ in a quiet voice, it is clearer to him.

He replies, withering inside, ‘I’m here to kill you. And I’ve orders to make it last.”

“Oh darling, I’m so sorry,” Eve says. “What has he done to you?”

Puzzlement mingles with Q’s despair. “You don’t seem to understand.”

Eve shrugs, still spreading preserves onto her slice of bread. “It’s not like I can simply run away from you or fight you. I don’t want to make it worse for you than it already is. Do you have a timetable?”

“He’ll be here soon. He was going to come with me from the start, but I begged to have some time with just the two of us so I could apologize properly. He’s going to be the one who says when it’s been enough.”

“At least I seem to have gotten on his nerves.”

Q gives a sick laugh. “It’s not just that, Eve! He wants me to prove how much I’ll do for him. And the worst thing is that I know I will. These four months have felt longer than the twelve years I spent immobilized, screaming, inside a tree, and worse than five years being poked and prodded and questioned endlessly about things I had no answers to. I at least had no one to care about other than myself back then.”

Eve rises, comes closer, and puts a hand on his cheek. “Look at me. Q. Whatever happens next, no matter what, know that I don’t blame you and that you are completely, utterly forgiven.”

He can’t maintain the contact, flinching and turning away. “I wish I could cry, dammit. I don’t know how to cry or die. Fuck.” Ariel does not speak like that. For Eve, for just a moment, he truly is Q again, and it is the most horrible gift he’s ever received. 

“I should wash your mouth out with soap, or better yet make you do it to yourself,” says a familiar voice. It’s not hyperbole, either, he knows. Silva has come. 

“Please, Master, please…”

Silva approaches, blithe, his hands in his pockets and free of cares. “Enough of that, my sweet. I have given what I will give. It’s now the time to work over your darling friend here.”

Eve clears her throat, and says, clear as a bell, “Actually it isn’t.”

Before Silva can ask, or threaten, or whatever else he was going to do, all three of them are temporarily blinded and deafened by a flash of golden light and the roar that accompanies it.

Once their senses return, Silva is immobilized as he stood a moment ago. A living statue. Only his eyes can dart about in panic. 

And someone the enslaved spirit had never thought he’d see again is standing before them, declaring, “By the power invested in me by the Supernatural Service of Great Britain, and the magics they have bestowed upon me until such time my duty is complete, I bind you, Tiago, and strip you of your Art.”

Mistress. Alive. Here. Saving him (and therefore also James).

Only the knowledge that she must complete the spell properly, without interruption, keeps Q from flinging himself before her. 

They can actually see her extract and reel in Silva’s magic, like a long silver cord being drawn out of his chest and into her staff. The very same staff she had borne to that laboratory where they first met. Q notices Eve’s rapt wonder despite all the sorrow and pain it has taken to get here, and his gratitude that she is alive and well at least trebles when he is reminded of what makes them friends.

That done, Mistress snaps her fingers and Silva disappears. ”We’ll deal with him properly later. More urgently, I have learned Bond’s location and now have the key to waking him. Shall we?”

“May I kiss your boots, Mistress?” Q asks.

“If it would genuinely cause you comfort, yes.”

So he does, clinging to her legs and shaking all over with relief and emotional exhaustion. He only stops when he feels Eve’s warm hand on his back.

“Don’t forget you don’t have to wear the collar anymore,” Eve says.

He already had forgotten. Rather than simply slipping out of it he makes it disintegrate into atoms, feeling a bit looser inside as a result. “Thank you. Both of you.”

“It’s not like you don’t deserve it, you pillock,” Eve says, wrapping an arm around his thin shoulders. “Make yourself look like you’re wearing a nice outfit or something when we get there. I think it will make you feel better.”

“She’s a wise young lady,” M comments. “Bond will also likely find it helpful in feeling truly safe again. Join hands with me, now.”

They do.

It is not all okay, of course it isn’t, and it won’t be for a long time, but when James is awake, whole, and kisses him fervently (“Q, Q, you’re such a hopeless idiot, I don’t know how you managed all those years before M took you in hand, I’m going to not let you out of my sight for days and days at least, Q…”) he is willing to believe that it can and will be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year. <3

The old M of MI6 retires to the countryside. Only three people come see her often. One of them stops by for tea every Sunday, appearing in her parlour like slightly translucent clockwork, quietly downing cup after cup of Earl Grey and radiating adoration. The second is less regular but calls ahead, often taking the other woman out to dinner. The third appears at random times and erratic intervals. Frequently by breaking in. Sometimes while inebriated - in which case it's never long before the sprite who loves him appears as well, apologizes on his behalf, and fetches him home.

Eve gets a pay rise and her boss' private revelation that she is being groomed to be the next M one day. She also gets Q requesting that she "inherit" the rights to command him when the inevitability of time steals away those who have such rights now. Guess which one she considers more valuable (guess whom she surprises with hugs when no one is looking, guess whom she cheers and cajoles when he is working too hard to prove himself).

James Bond is cleared for duty shortly after his return. He is physically whole and has actually never spent so long in captivity with so little trauma before. He reflects from time to time on what that says about his career. He will have to retire in five years if he makes it that long, though he knows how much Q is intent on and able to ensure it happens. 

Q is now devoting a sizable portion of his salary towards having a private home built on an island that shows up on very few maps and whose name is known by very few individuals. He is also practising how to make himself appear older, in stages, bit by bit, so James will not feel so drastically how much he is leaving the immortal behind. A ten or twenty year sabbatical is not unreasonable when Q can pledge decades, perhaps centuries, of service in total, after all.

....

"Hello, Tiago Rodriguez." 

They have stripped him of his magic, and still they fear his intelligence and physical prowess. He is not imprisoned anywhere near Vauxhall Cross. He isn't entirely sure he is in Great Britain. He cannot speak unless ordered to, and the guards never give such orders, not even when the visitor requested the two of them be left alone for a few minutes.

"I'm back to being Q again, for the most part," his visitor continues, arms folded in front of it, human in visage, bearing, solidity. A slightly frayed navy blue cardigan. Superfluous glasses. Black Converse shoes. As if these tokens help make Ariel believe that falsehood well enough to perpetuate it on others. Perhaps they do. Like all the little mannerisms of sighs and eye-rolls, foot-tapping, pursed lips and muttered grumbles - things it must have taken centuries to perfect. Yet the sprite now clings to this self as if this were truth and its real nature some temporary aberration. If circumstances were different this would be fascinating.

"It's not the easiest thing. You know I don't actually sleep, so I don't actually dream, but things, well, some things remind me of you. And then usually some poor subordinate gets a thorough scolding for minor mistakes I would have overlooked, before, even under this persona. Can't apologize afterwards without sabotaging myself. I've also been binge eating, though of course it's just a waste of food rather than causing me physical harm. The therapist they make me see now says it's overcompensation. She's a decently powerful witch but she still seems a bit overwhelmed."

The Gift, even latent, is such a powerful part of identity that removing it turns one into a living ghost. If Silva were able to speak whenever he liked it wouldn't make a practical difference. Everything is through a dispassionate mist.

Still he notices a thin silver chain hanging around the Quartermaster's neck, and the Quartermaster notices him noticing.

"Might as well show it to you. The therapist said stopping by might give me closure if it didn't trigger me too badly, and it feels right that you be the first person I tell." Dangling from the chain is a sky-blue crystal, white sparks swirling within. "I've been issued my own version of a suicide capsule. The Supernatural Service has been working on it for close to forty years now. Unfortunately it's not possible to test beyond a certain point, but Mistress convinced them to let me be its keeper, let me decide if and when. They thought about using it before you were defeated, but she overrode them. She said I have served her as well or more as the entire roster of double-ohs ever has, and both need and deserve the ability to die - it can only be activated using my own brand of magic, now."

Silva drinks some water while his visitor is lost in thought. Eventually it says, "It's one of three gifts she has given me. Or perhaps I should say 'rewards'. For agreeing to James Bond, my island is protected from human encroachment. For dedicating so many years to MI6, I am allowed to choose an end one day. And for not breaking under your treatment, I chose your punishment. It has been approved and will be enacted tomorrow. I'm tired of monologuing; speak freely from now on until I leave you."

"I won't beg." Such a rusty voice. Such slow words. Shadows are not talkative, as a rule.

The Quartermaster's head inclines a few centimeters. "I wasn't expecting you to. They were willing to make your punishment last a few hundred years if that would mollify me. They're all rather afraid of me, the ones that know I am Ariel but do not know I am more Q every day. Then again I think only Mistress, Mallory, Eve, and James know both things and believe them. Perhaps Tanner soon. I would like that."

"Why do you care?"

"I don't know. Being thoroughly uncaring for this long would likely have been detrimental. All that time with nothing to turn my consciousness towards. I think Prospera made me a person that way. I wanted her love, and she gave it. My triumph and tragedy. I've wondered sometimes if the humans who believe in reincarnation might have the right idea, Mistress is so like her. And you remind me so of Caliban. Which is what made my decision, in the end, for though Caliban sought to harm Prospera and her child, he was motivated by Prospera's abandonment of him. Turning him to serve her purposes without returning his affection. Saving an orphan, becoming the orphan's only parent-figure, and then pushing him away was never a wise choice."

"Tell me the sentence."

A very deliberate blink and a clearing of the throat. Silva knows now these shows are not for him. "I was in your thrall for four months and six days. For an equal length of time you will be trapped inside a tree trunk, conscious, unable to sense or move, with nothing but your thoughts for company. Bond argued hard for twelve years but I vowed a long time ago I wouldn't wish that on even my worst enemy. After this period you will be permitted to die without further pain."

"I see."

"Goodbye, Tiago. If my speculations are true and we ever meet again, may it go better." And the visitor disappears.

...

"I still say you were too kind," Bond says after Q relates the story, all the while lying on the carpet of the flat they now share with three mostly-grown cats. It's a good thing for domestic harmony that Q figured out a reliable charm to make all of Bond's clothes cat-hair-repellent. The one named Ferdinand likes Bond as much as he likes Q, but is cooly indifferent to all others. Miranda loves everyone, to the point of repeatedly climbing back onto people who nudge her off them, but is deaf as a post. Caliban seemingly hates everyone and everything, but is a fantastic mouser, even eliminating the flat's brief cockroach problem.

"Perhaps I was," Q replies, scratching Ferdinand under the chin. Miranda is in a purring ball on top of his chest. Caliban is waging another of his perpetual battles against the curtains. "But I was never the very vengeful type. It doesn't interest me."

Bond is lying on the sofa, reading a stack of briefing files. He sort of wishes international drug cartels wouldn't change their leadership so often. It's far more gratifying watching his...whatever Q is to him, healing, and for the moment even content. He reaches a hand down and Q takes it, accepts the gentle squeeze. "Human or not, I think you're a far better person than I am."


End file.
